I'll forever hold my memory of you as dear;
though it compares poorly to reality.
Not for the thrill of new and unknown.
Nor for the thirst of youthful flesh,
but for the illusion of souls made mesh.
For the comfort of infinite passion.
For the security of "you'll be here tomorrow".
For the restfulness of loyalty and the softness of head on chest.
But this memory was handcrafted from porcelain.
A gift you never cherished.
Now, viel lifted, I see the cracked clay you've allowed to wither and decay.
You lash out, beastly, to scorn my recognition.
Oct 29, 2025
Oct 29, 2025 at 8:52 PM UTC
I'll forever hold my memory of you as dear;
though it compares poorly to reality.
Not for the thrill of new and unknown.
Nor for the thirst of youthful flesh,
but for the illusion of souls made mesh.
For the comfort of infinite passion.
For the security of "you'll be here tomorrow".
For the restfulness of loyalty and the softness of head on chest.
But this memory was handcrafted from porcelain.
A gift you never cherished.
Now, viel lifted, I see the cracked clay you've allowed to wither and decay.
You lash out, beastly, to scorn my recognition.
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